


Rosethorn

by grelleswife



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Grelle is a princess, Hannah is a knight, Ladies in love, Magic, Trans Female Character, bisexual Grelle, but better safe than sorry where tagging is concerned, knight in shining armor, lesbian Hannah, more canon characters will appear in subsequent chapters, the violence probably won't be too bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-05 19:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20278318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grelleswife/pseuds/grelleswife
Summary: Princess Grelle of House Sutcliff is to be the next Rose Queen. As has been the case for generations, her body will serve as the scabbard for the enchanted swords that protect the kingdom from marauders and ravenous djinn. Four of the kingdom's finest knights must battle one another for the right to be named Queen's Thorn, the champion capable of summoning and wielding these holy weapons. Among their number is the noble and beauteous Dame Hannah Annafellows. As the Rose Duels proceed apace, Hannah and Grelle are inexorably drawn to one another, but the path of love is overgrown with briars. Hidden forces at the castle conspire to bring about Grelle's downfall, the djinns' attacks inexplicably increase...and Hannah guards a dark secret that threatens not only her future with Grelle, but her very life. The passion between princess and knight blooms like the reddest of roses, but will their love be stifled by the thorns of adversity?





	1. Prologue: The Queen's Seal

**Author's Note:**

> For the Sapphic Sutcliff Week "masked ball" prompt (said ball occurs in Chapter 1. Depending on how the story progresses, there might be more dances! I do have a soft spot for pretty ladies in pretty dresses.)
> 
> This is my first multichap, so I am essentially winging it, and it will probably be quite some time before I update (there is still much worldbuilding to be done). I thank you in advance for your patience! <3
> 
> The concept of the magic swords is loosely based on certain aspects of the plot of Revolutionary Girl Utena.

They had never believed Grelle when, as a child, she insisted that she was a girl. Her brother had mocked her attempts to grow her hair long like her sisters, and her parents had personally demanded that she cut it short, as befitted a prince. They cared not a whit that, inside, she was a princess. In the privacy of the royal quarters, her mother had struck her across the face when she attempted to wear a dress to the ball held in honor of her eighteenth year. What would the guests think if they saw a prince of the Sutcliff bloodline parading about in such a state? ‘But I’m a _princess_, Mama,’ Grelle insisted, on the verge of tears. She’d merely received another slap for her pains—thankfully, makeup concealed the bruises, more or less.

But then had come that glorious, magical day that everything changed, etched indelibly into her memory: Her 21st birthday. Grelle had woken, casually inspected herself in the mirror, and then stared, incredulous hope giving way to pure joy. There it was, plain as day on her right shoulder: The image of a red rose. The Queen’s Seal. Her mother had shrieked, her father had wrung his hands in perplexity, her siblings had stared slack-jawed, and the courtiers had murmured excitedly to one another behind their sleeves, but there was no mistaking it. The mark was known as the _Queen’s_ Seal for a reason. Only a _woman_ of their linage could hope to bear the title of Rose Queen, her body serving as the scabbard for her briars, the Four Holy Blades.

“I told you so!” Grelle had laughed triumphantly, and the few who were there to observe her confrontation with her mother, the current Rose Queen, said that the rebellious royal had never appeared more beautiful. “I’m a woman, Mother! I have _always_ been a woman!”

When the queen had recovered from her shock, she resigned herself to the situation. Nothing good ever came of meddling with the rose magic, and, for all her faults, Queen Eira was no fool. She did not bother to offer Grelle an apology for her past unkindness, but Grelle was not naïve enough to expect or ask for one. However, the monarch did grudgingly admit that, since Grelle was to be the next Rose Queen, she might as well look like it. At long last, she permitted the court’s wizard, Othello, to try the spell of transformation he had prepared especially for the scarlet-haired princess.

Kind, clever little Othello. When he’d found her weeping in an isolated tower on one of the days when misery at her condition had threatened to consume her, he had declared himself her staunch ally. Since then, he had always lent Grelle a listening ear and his public support, even when faced with ridicule from the rest of the court. What a good friend he had been to her!

“Congratulations, Princess!” he cheered when she rushed down to his suite with the happy news, throwing his arms around her. “That’ll show ‘em, Your Highness! I’ll start preparing for the ceremony right away!” After spending most of the day boiling potions, drawing arcane symbols on the floor, and flipping through books muttering to himself furiously, Othello was ready. Grelle approached the ceremonial room with her heart racing in anticipation. Her family waited outside, albeit with grim faces (only her younger sister, Brigid, seemed happy for her). Othello eagerly ushered her in. He really was adorable, almost swallowed up by his floppy, pointed hat and voluminous green robes. “Right this way, Princess,” he said, ushering her to the edge of a small pool that had mysteriously appeared in the center of the room.

“Now…er…if you’ll disrobe and get in,” he continued, blushing just a tad, “I’ll begin the ritual.”

“No need to be shy, Othello,” Grelle chuckled, grinning as she tossed her clothes aside and gracefully stepped into the pool. She was soon submerged in the warm water up to her chin. Othello lightly placed a hand on her head.

“Just close your eyes and concentrate on the very center of your being, that part of you deep down that first helped you realize who you truly were. I’ll say the incantation, and then…we’ll see.”

“Will it hurt?” Grelle asked, a faint shiver of apprehension traveling down her spine in spite of her desire to be free of this flawed body that was so very like a prison.

“It might,” Othello said matter-of-factly. “But you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. Wouldn’t you agree, Your Highness?” Grelle swallowed, then nodded resolutely. If she was to be queen, this was the first step in claiming the crown that was rightfully hers. The scrawny wizard began chanting, hesitantly at first but then with growing conviction, his voice rising and falling as he made himself a conduit to the magic’s power.

Then, he pushed her head beneath the water. Pain roared through Grelle’s limbs, a fire that must surely reduce her to less than ashes. She screamed, though no one could hear her watery cries. Grelle felt that all the accumulated suffering and indignities of 21 years had been condensed into those few torturous moments.

All at once, it was over.

She broke the surface, gasping for air, shaking her head and flinging droplets every which way. Trembling, her hands hesitantly roved over her body, and she gasped. “My glasses!” she shouted in excitement as she clambered out of the pool and stumbled towards the large, ornate mirror Othello had prepared nearby.

“P-princess, don’t you want to put on your robe first…” Othello, now a bright shade of pink, stuttered. “Oh, that can wait. We’re all friends here. My _glasses_, please!” Othello quickly handed her the spectacles. Grelle put them on with a trembling hand and looked in the mirror. With a cry, she fell to her knees, tears pouring down her cheeks. “Princess Grelle! Are you all right?” Othello gasped.

“That’s…me,” she sobbed, reaching for her reflection. “That’s…really…me.” The person gazing back at her in awe was unmistakably Grelle, but no one would have disputed whether or not she was a princess. Her features were finer, more delicate. Her hands were smaller than before, her waist slender and supple as a willow, and _she had curves_. Everything that ought to have been there was present, and those things which were unfitting had been removed. “Oh, thank you, thank you…” she whispered before another change registered.

“My…my voice! It sounds _right_!” It had been a constant source of embarrassment before; she had resorted to perpetually speaking in falsetto, carefully shaping every phrase in an attempt of sound appropriately feminine. How exhausting that had been! But the voice she had now was pure and sweet as fresh springwater, or the sound of the flute.

And her _hair_! She raked her fingers through it, desperate to prove that it was not a mere figment of her imagination. Red as freshy-spilled blood, luxuriant as tapestry thread. When she stood, it reached all the way to her knees.

Othello handed her a white robe. After clothing herself, Grelle clutched Othello to her bosom, accidentally knocking off his whimsical hat in the process. “Thank you, you darling sorcerer!” she wept. “I shan’t forget this kindness, not ever!”

“You deserve it, Princess,” Othello replied once she let him go, wiping a discrete tear from glistening eyes. “I’m just sorry we couldn’t have done this sooner.”

“Well, better late than never! Now it’s time to introduce myself to the family—the _real_ me.”

Striding across the room, Grelle flung open the door, reducing the rest of the royal family to an astonished silence.

Tossing her hair over one shoulder, she struck a dramatic pose. “Behold! It is I, the Rose Princess. Look upon her! Yes, _her_!”


	2. Chapter 1: Silver Masks and Solemn Oaths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At a ceremonial masked ball held after her transformation, Grelle encounters a mysterious knight who piques her curiosity. (spoiler alert: It's Hannah)

The palace’s ballroom was illuminated with the light of hundreds of enchanted candles, prepared by Othello’s capable hand. The dulcet music of the queen’s chamber orchestra wafted through the air, delighting the ear and gladdening the heart. Dozens of dancers twirled about the room in their finest apparel, for this was a special evening: The Night of Masks. During this ball, the palace opened its gates to the common folk (to an extent—Grelle’s mother disdained the peasantry but found merchants and tradespeople tolerable), and the various and sundry folk danced together, hiding their faces behind ornate masks, traditionally silver in color. The dance was supposed to serve as a reminder of the kingdom’s unity beneath the Rose Queen’s banner. On the morrow, the ceremony for the Passing of the Swords would be held, and Othello would transfer the Four Holy Blades from Queen Eira to Princess Grelle. Afterwards would come the Rose Duels. The magic swords mysteriously contained within the body of the Rose Queen were normally entities of pure energy, intangible and inaccessible to all, even their vessel herself. However, four warriors from the ranks of the Knights of the Rose, as yet unknown, would be marked by the rose magic. The sign of the blades would appear on the palm of their sword hand after the Passing, indicating that they were capable of summoning forth these mighty weapons. The knights would battle one another for possession of all four swords, with the victor being named the Queen’s Thorn. This champion would serve as Grelle’s personal knight, wielding the swords’ power to defend their kingdom from all manner of foes, most notably the djinn from the Vale of Ashes. Once her Thorn had been identified, Grelle would be declared the new Rose Queen, with her mother providing guidance as Dowager (gods, that was a thought to give the heart palpitations! Grelle wouldn’t relish dealing with Eira’s domineering ways, especially since the women had spent most her life regarding Grelle as a son rather than a daughter).

Tonight, though, the princess’s attention was exclusively focused on enjoying the masked ball to the fullest. Clad in a flowing, long-sleeved scarlet dress and golden phoenix mask (Who gave tuppence about tradition? Silver was much too dull for a princess!) with special crystal eyepieces to compensate for her nearsightedness, she threw herself wholeheartedly into the colorful melee. Since red hair was a common trait among the people of her kingdom, Grelle was able to blend in without too much trouble, free for once of the court’s incomprehension and contempt. The instrumentalists were taking a brief respite before the next waltz, and Grelle scanned the crowd for a worthy partner.

Over by a corner was a man whose baffling hairstyle (a daring mixture of braids and tousled bangs) revealed him to be Sir Eric Slingby. He was chatting animatedly with the palace gardener Alan Humphries, a wispy brunette who was as slight as a sapling. Once upon a time, Grelle had shared a bittersweet summer romance with the rugged Slingby, conducted in secrecy due to strictures that forbade the royal family from consorting with knights. Of course, Grelle had never put much stock in rules. Even as the autumn leaves withered, their romance had faded, but Grelle and Eric remained on good terms. Given that “princes” were expected to be fit to lead troops into battle, Grelle often trained with the Knights of the Rose, and she had learned a great deal from Eric. Whether showing her how to wield a sword or introducing her to matters of the heart, Sir Eric had been an invaluable guide. Ironic, then, that it was Grelle who showed Eric the path to true love by insisting that he absolutely _must_ make his feelings plain to the quiet little gardener. (‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Grelle!’ ‘Oh, honestly, Eric, you’re besotted with him, and judging from the way he always manages to be trimming a bush or planting flowers wherever you happen to be, Alan’s mad about you. Just _court_ him already, you idiot!’). Sir Eric and Alan were soon inseparable, and Eric had confided to Grelle that he hoped to propose to Humphries once she was crowned as the new Rose Queen.

These recollections were interrupted by a smooth, slightly accented voice. “How goes it, Princess?” A tall, dark-haired man wearing an ebony raven mask (in addition to flowing, dark robes trimmed with lace and a pair of decidedly unconventional high-heeled black boots) materialized at her side, silent as a shadow.

“Oh, Bassy, you rogue! I was wondering when I’d run into you.” Few at court dared speak on such familiar terms with Sebastian Michaelis, the court’s most ruthless and capable assassin. Whenever the Rose Queen had a messy problem that could not easily be resolved in the light of day, whether it was an enemy who needed to be silenced or a delicate bit of reconnaissance, Sebastian was the man for the job. His guile was matched only by his preternatural strength and agility, which made him a formidable foe if crossed. He was a charming devil, though, and handsome as a lord to boot. Grelle had been attracted to that pretty face, of course, but it was his wild, restless heart, similar in many ways to hers, that had turned that attraction into something more. Although their passion had burned itself out in a tumultuous finale, Sebastian had been among her most cherished lovers, in part because he truly regarded her as a woman. While not identical to Grelle, he understood her plight better than most. During one of their trysts, the assassin confessed that his inner self often shifted. On occasion, Sebastian felt more akin to a woman. At other times, he would sense himself to be a man in soul as well as in body. This secret accounted for his mode of dress, which tended to have an undeniably feminine flair. ‘Aren’t we a pair?’ he’d laughed ruefully. ‘We’re like books that everyone insists on misinterpreting even though the truth is writ within them in the clearest of terms.’ However, since assassins were not as hemmed in by the petty rules of court etiquette as royalty, Sebastian’s distinctive behavior and mannerisms were tolerated more than Grelle’s. Surely, people reasoned, one could not work in the darkness without acquiring a few eccentricities along the way. 

“As a matter of fact, I was seeking you out. I’d be happy to share a dance with you, if you should desire a partner.” Grelle and Sebastian maintained a close friendship (with a clandestine nocturnal benefit or two), and the princess felt a rush of gratitude towards Michaelis for offering her a hand instead of pushing her away in revulsion as so many others did. And yet…

Her eyes strayed over to a regal, dark-skinned man with silvery hair wearing a tiger half-mask. He was standing nearby and laughing heartily with a few other attendees. That had to be Sir Agni. Though formerly a brutal mercenary, a profound conversion experience had led Agni to pursue knighthood. He was numbered among the finest of the queen’s knights, as renowned for his noble heart and culinary masterpieces (Agni’s curry was widely touted as a divine creation) as for his feats on the battlefield. Of late, Grelle had noticed Sebastian cast many a wistful glance Agni’s way, not to mention the growing frequency with which he asked the knight (blushing like a lovesick youth all the while) if he could assist with making the latest batch of curry.

“Thank you, darling, but I believe there’s someone over there who would enjoy your company even more.”

Sebastian followed Grelle’s meaningful gaze.

“Well…” he hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other, though his carmine eyes began to smolder. “Sir Agni is a fine dancer…”

“And you fancy him, and he fancies you, and the two of you need to get a move on so that I can start planning your nuptials,” Grelle chimed in assertively.

Sebastian grinned rakishly. “I suppose I mustn’t disobey an order from my future queen,” he purred, winking at Grelle as he sauntered over to Agni.

Grelle smiled fondly after him, though she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. Why was everyone around her finding their soulmates while she was still left alone, though at least with a body that suited her better?

The orchestra began tuning their instruments, and Grelle swore internally. Damn! She still needed to find someone to share the dance with…

“May I have this waltz?” a voice that she did not recognize queried softly behind her. It was rich, dark, and warm, like the sound of the cello. Grelle whirled around to find herself face-to-face with a woman whose lavender hair (held back in an elegantly understated bun) and skin tone, similar to Agni’s, marked her as one who hailed from Dasmir. The small southern province was under the Rose Queen’s dominion, and, as such, contributed its finest warriors to the ranks of her knights. The woman wore white gloves that reached to the elbow, a light purple ballgown that showed her voluptuous figure to full advantage, and a silver half mask resembling a lioness’s countenance.

Grelle blinked rapidly, startled. She was familiar with many of the knights, but for the life of her she couldn’t quite place this dame. _Who on earth could she be?_

The knight stepped back meekly. “I am sorry,” she whispered, bowing her head dejectedly.

“No—wait!” Grelle cried, holding out her hand. This woman may be unknown to her, but Grelle wasn’t about to refuse a dance. Besides, as the adage went, Grelle ‘wielded two blades,’ which meant that she was more than willing to encourage the attentions of a beauteous damsel. “I’d be honored.”

The dame hesitantly took Grelle’s hand in her own, and the princess let out an involuntary gasp as a burning sensation emanated from the Queen’s Seal. It lasted but an instant, then abated. _What just happened? Why…?_

“Are you all right, Princess Grelle?” the knight asked anxiously.

“I’m fine…” Grelle began before realizing that the dame had addressed her by name. “And you saw through my disguise, I see!”

“Merely a lucky guess,” the knight replied shyly, placing her hand on Grelle’s waist.

_She’s so tall_, Grelle marveled, looking up at the other woman. _Taller than me! _

Grelle liked that in a woman.

The orchestra commenced the waltz. Grelle noted that her mysterious partner was an accomplished dancer, movements graceful and sure. Her touch was light, respectful, hands never roving beyond the bounds of propriety.

_My hand fits perfectly in hers._

Grelle flushed. Where had that thought come from? She wasn’t even sure who this woman was; she had no business losing her head like a silly little ninny. “What do you think of the ball, fair dame? Is it not a splendid affair?” Grelle asked her taciturn companion, anxious to distract herself.

After a pensive moment, the knight replied, “Truth be told, I think it a rather meaningless one, Your Highness.”

“Oh ho! How so?”

_Ah, the quiet ones always surprise you!_

The knight bit her lip in consternation, and her shoulders tensed. “Forgive me. I spoke out of turn…”

“Nonsense!” Grelle hoped she hadn’t slighted the dame. “I’m not Mother. I can’t stand being surrounded by sniveling sycophants babbling what they think I want to hear. I like it when people speak their minds to me; it’s the least a princess deserves, don’t you think?”

The tension in the knight’s shoulders eased perceptibly, and she nodded hesitantly.

“Now, tell me plainly what you meant when you said the masked ball was meaningless?”

The knight paused for a moment’s reflection before beginning. “Well…in theory, the purpose of this evening is to give high and low a chance to mingle freely, with all the normal boundaries temporarily waived. By donning a mask, the revelers are able to be their true selves. It’s the same principle by which the fairy tales in books are written—the author uses an illusion or concealment (for aren’t all tales lies in a sense?) to convey a fundamental truth. But the illusions are imperfect ones. One can readily discern, with a bit of effort, whether a dancer is a queen or merely a merchant’s daughter. The nobility will usually disdain the commoners, and the commoners do not dare to presume upon the nobility.”

Interesting. _Very_ interesting. She was an astute one. A keen mind was another trait Grelle liked in a woman.

“Go on.”

Biting her lower lip again (how charming!), the dame continued. “Almost always, you can find cracks in the façade, if you look long enough. There’s far more to a person than the face. There are dozens, nay, hundreds, of little clues—in their gait, or manner of speech, or what have you—that will betray their identity regardless of how fine the mask may be. That was the case with you, Princess Grelle.”

“My, my, MY! And here I’ve always fancied myself to be a consummate actress! What gave me away, pray tell?”

“Your laugh,” the knight immediately replied, her tone growing bolder, more confident. “It’s much…freer than your sisters’. And your smile; there’s an expressivity there that is uniquely your own. You have a very jaunty step, too, and a proud defiance in the carriage of your head.” The dame halted her litany, as if fearful that she had said too much.

She noticed all that…Grelle felt a little rush. She was accustomed to being looked at, but seldom was she _seen_ in this way.

“Quite the observant eye! I’m glad to know that the Knights of the Rose are as clever as they are valiant.”

The knight averted her gaze in apparent discomfort at Grelle’s praise. “I’m not so clever as all that, Highness. I read on occasion, say little, and watch vigilantly. That’s all.”

“Hmm. In-_deeeed_.” A pause. “I _like_ you, mysterious dame.”

A faint blush darkened the knight’s cheeks, but she made no reply. Instead, she softly hummed along with the waltz’s melody, a sound that was undeniably mellifluous. A woman of many talents.

“You enjoy the music, then?” Grelle asked, unable to quell her curiosity. _If only I knew her _name_…_

“Oh, I love music!” the knight exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. “I’ve studied the flute and harp since I was but a girl. Music is a great consolation to me.”

“Really?”

“Well…music gives a voice to those feelings that the heart can’t find words for. It heals wounds that are invisible to the eye, and it brings color to the gray, faded parts of the soul. The harpist who taught me often called music the salt of the emotions. It draws forth their deepest flavors.”

_Astonishing. Astonishing! How could we have never spoken before this evening? She’s delightful!_

“I remember seeing a play where one of the characters called music ‘the food of love,’ or something to that effect. It’s powerful, to be sure,” Grelle nodded thoughtfully.

The knight smiled eagerly “Yes, exactly!”

The next few minutes were spent discussing their favorite musical pieces, followed by a brief lull during which they danced in companionable silence. Grelle let the music wash over her, glorying in the light and color of the grand hall, the warmth of the knight’s touch.

_I don’t want this dance to end._

But no waltz lasts forever, and, all too soon, the orchestra played the final chord.

Knight and princess stood for a moment in perfect stillness. The dame’s eyes were deep blue, Grelle observed. Calm, yet impassioned, as though she were regarding Grelle with her whole soul. Grelle was mesmerized. Almost without realizing what she was doing, she tenderly stroked the woman’s bottom lip.

The knight staggered backward, breathing suddenly ragged. “I…must leave. Forgive me, Highness,” she choked out before vanishing into the crowd. Grelle’s jaw dropped. She _left_! How dare she?! Princess Grelle of House Sutcliff was not the sort of woman one just _left_. Her eyes narrowed in determination. If she wanted something, she got it, and she wanted the knight’s name.

Pushing through the press of bodies, Grelle made haste to catch up with the other woman. Thanks to the dame’s height, Grelle was able to track her movements and observe when she slipped out a side door. Ignoring the affronted cries of dancers whose toes were trodden or ribs rudely elbowed, Grelle sped after her, practically flinging the door off its hinges and speeding down the hall (as much as one could with high heels) after her retreating quarry.

“Halt, I say!” Grelle called after her. The knight froze before reluctantly turning to face Grelle.

“I _must_ know your name, fair damsel!” Grelle demanded, getting right to the heart of the matter. “And the face I can put it with.”

The knight bit her lip yet again in obvious reluctance before replying, “Is that an order, Your Highness?”

“A request. When a lovely flower pleases me, I wish to know how I may call her. Here.” Grelle yanked at her own mask, snapping the dainty ribbon that held it in place. She quickly slipped a hand inside her bodice to retrieve her spectacles, which she affixed to her nose (why was her hand shaking slightly?) so that she could clearly see the dame.

With agonizing slowness, the woman reached up behind her head, carefully undoing the knotted ribbon before removing her own disguise. The hall was only lit by torchlight, but Grelle could clearly discern that she was as comely as the heroines in minstrels’ ballads.

“My name is Hannah, Your Highness. Hannah Annafellows.”

“Oh, yes!” Grelle cried. She _did _know this knight, after all…somewhat. Every now and then, the Dasmirian knight would happen to be in the stables or the training grounds when Grelle was, though they rarely spoke. Now that Grelle thought about it, Hannah always seemed to leave shortly after she arrived. She vaguely recalled Eric saying that Hannah was a doughty warrior but tended to keep her own counsel and was by nature a solitary soul.

“Whatever did you run away for?” Grelle asked petulantly, crossing her arms.

“I was merely tired, princess, and wished to return to my chambers,” Hannah answered, though both she and Grelle were aware that this was not entirely true. For the time being, though, Grelle decided to let it pass.

Hannah made as if to go, then wavered. She swallowed nervously. Then, as best she could given her current apparel, she got down on one knee before Grelle.

“You have not yet been crowned Rose Queen,” she said, her sonorous voice filling the dimly-lit hall as she bowed her head, “but I pledge my sword, my heart, and my sacred honor to your service. I shall destroy all enemies who oppose you and shield you from all manner of hardship, even if it cost me my life. In the eyes of the gods, may it be so.”

Grelle was dumbstruck. This was the oath the Knights of the Rose normally made to their sovereign after the queen’s coronation, yet here Hannah was kneeling before her in a ballgown while she was still a princess! What could have prompted this outburst? Indeed, Hannah was already looking more than a little embarrassed at her own behavior.

Romantic gestures! Still another trait Grelle appreciated in a woman.

“I accept your pledge, lady knight,” Grelle intoned, reciting the queen’s ceremonial response, “In the eyes of the gods, may it be so.” She offered Hannah her right hand, and the dame brought it to her lips, eyes closing as if in prayer.

Grelle heart pounded wildly in her chest like a caged bird desperate to break free, and the Queen’s Seal burned, though to a lesser extent than previously. Hannah rose with the fluid grace of a great cat before giving the princess a small, sweet smile that made her knees buckle.

“Good night, your Highness,” she finally said before at least departing to her chambers. This time, Grelle did not follow her.

The princess’s mind swarmed with questions. Why had Hannah’s touch provoked such a strong response from the magic within her? Why had the knight avoided her until tonight? Why had Hannah approached her at the ball? And what had prompted her declaration of fealty in the hall just now?

Grelle made her way back to the ballroom with an unsteady tread, donning her mask. She would dance until the late hours of the morning, as was her custom, but she knew that the rest of the evening’s partners would leave her unsatisfied. Tonight, she would dream of blue eyes and a gentle voice calling her “princess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I remember seeing a play where one of the characters called music ‘the food of love,’ or something to that effect": reference to "If music be the food of love, play on," from Act I, scene i of Twelfth Night
> 
> "The dame’s eyes were deep blue, Grelle observed. Calm, yet impassioned, as though she were regarding Grelle with her whole soul": Borrowed from the English translation of the text of Lili Boulanger's art song "Vous m’avez regardé":
> 
> "You looked at me with all your soul. /You looked at me a long while like a blue sky. /I took that look into the depths of my own eyes. /How impassioned yet calm was that look."


End file.
